


If You Are Not Mine

by fallingwildrosepetals



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Aftercare, Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Blasphemy, Bondage, Bottom Richie Tozier, Come Sharing, Come as Lube, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dramatic Richie Tozier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Implied enema, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Light Dom/sub, Light Humiliation Play, Light Pain Play, Light Spanking, M/M, Mild Yelling, Multi, Naked Male Clothed Female, Naked Male Clothed Male, Name-Calling, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Nonsexual Bathroom Use, Oral Sex, Pegging, Polyamorous Losers Club (IT), Relationship Issues, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Self Confidence Issues, Sex Toys, Shameless Smut, Soft Stanley Uris, Spit Roasting, Strap-Ons, Sub Richie Tozier, Swearing, Top Stanley Uris, Trust Issues, Video Cameras, argument, only one naked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24252151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingwildrosepetals/pseuds/fallingwildrosepetals
Summary: Richie was the luckiest chucklefuck alive. Somehow, he landed in a relationship with six of the hottest people on the planet. All hilarious, talented, and willing to put up with Richie’s pathological need for attention.The only problem? Seven's an odd number.
Relationships: The Losers Club & Richie Tozier, The Losers Club/The Losers Club (IT)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 198





	1. Chapter 1

It was a blustery Illinois evening in the suburbs. Grey clouds spat out rain in thin, freezing bursts and the clear part of the sky was streaked with the sun’s blood. Richie, home from a meeting in the city, parked his rattling Volvo and killed the engine. 

His stomach growled, low and painful. Pressing a hand to the softness there, he whispered, “hang in there, _señor estómago_.” He didn’t bother to lock the doors when he got out. If someone wanted the hunk a junk, more power to ‘em. His CDs were starting to skip in the cassette converter anyway. 

When Richie got to the house, he locked the door behind him, kicked off his shoes, and threw his faded leather jacket at the stand. It slid to the floor with a hollow whoosh. Richie shrugged; the floor was dinner plate clean, so who cared? Leaving the jacket to its fate, he slouched down the hallway to the kitchen. 

Ben and Bev sat at one end of the long table, bathed in the warm glow of the glass chandelier. They were working, each sketching something on their pads. Ben in graphite. Bev with a colored pencil. They didn’t speak, but their bare feet tapped together under the table. 

“Hey guys.” Richie grabbed a granny smith from the bowl on the island and took a bite. 

“Hi Rich.” Ben gifted him the slow, sweet smile that always flipped Richie’s stomach. Whatever crafted his Haystack sure had an eye for design. 

Bev grunted her hello and didn’t look up. 

“Hey Bev,” Richie prodded, mouth full of apple. 

Bev lifted her head and quirked an eyebrow. The purpling bags under her eyes made their luminous blue even more striking. How long had she been at it without a break?

“I once heard a joke about a red herring,” he said with a grin. 

“Yeah?” 

“Maybe I’ll tell it to you sometime.” Richie finger gunned her. 

Bev shook her head, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips, then leaned forward and pinched his cheek. “Come up with some new material, honey.” 

“Eviscerated. Ten points to Miss Marsh,” he said with a grin, catching her fingers in a quick kiss. “I actually—” 

“Hey Rich,” Ben cut in. “We’re kinda in the middle of work, here. Can you tell us your jokes later?” 

Richie glanced between him and Bev; their expressions of impatience were like slammed doors. “Yeah, sure. Of course.” 

Without so much as a ‘see-ya,’ they returned to their work. Tossing the rest of the apple at his kindred spirit, the garbage can, Richie granted their wish.

He beelined to Bill’s office, a headache creeping in at the edges of his eyes. His table lamp was on, casting a warm glow into the hallway. 

Richie let himself in, but Bill wasn’t alone; he and Mike sat on the sleek leather sofa, leaning into each other. Mike typed on a laptop while Bill read aloud from a massive book with deep cracks in the spine. Though he had improved his fluency with therapy, Bill’s stutter still made occasional appearances. Richie secretly treasured each one. 

Richie plopped on the sofa and dropped his head on Bill’s shoulder. This was his favorite place to be, especially when he didn’t feel good. Bill usually let him stay for hours, his inky fingers tangled in Richie’s hair. It was downright magical. 

“Hey, Richie,” Bill and Mike said together, without tone, like creepy twins from a horror movie. 

“Hiya,” Richie said. “What’s up, buttercups?” 

“W-Working on our book.” Bill patted Richie’s cheek. “We’re going outside in a minute. Fresh air.” 

“Oh.” Richie sat up. 

“You can come if you want,” Mike said, removing a flash drive, “but we have a lot more book stuff to talk about.” 

“That’s…that’s okay.” 

Bill stood and stretched, strands of hair falling into his ever-changing eyes. Right now, their blue was the calm stretch of a clean lake. 

Mike smiled blearily, tousled Richie’s hair, and then he and Bill were gone and Richie was alone again. 

Richie slumped on the couch and buried himself in the warm places they left behind. 

“What did you do today, Richie? How was _your_ day Richie? Oh wait, we don’t care.” His stomach growled. “Yes, I know!” 

Richie got up and rifled through Bill’s desk. In the third drawer down on the right side, he found what he was looking for: the Kaspbrak-condemned secret snack stash. Richie pinched a package of Swiss Cake Rolls and wolfed them down. 

Bill’s cherry desk was covered in Rorschach ink spills. A bird. A dick. A demon’s grin winding around the gold-framed picture of Georgie. Georgie, his little face smiling, arms wrapped tight around his stuffed turtle. 

The cakes turned to ash in Richie’s mouth. He swallowed hard, threw the plastic away, and hurried from the room. 

Muffled TV noises wafted like a smell down the hall from the open living room door. Richie squared his shoulders. Surely, the Trashmouth was preferable to TV. 

Eddie and Stan lounged on the overstuffed couch, devastating as ever in their high-buttoned work clothes, ties loosened. Stan’s tie was a dull, mossy color that brought out the green in his eyes. Eddie’s was a silky dark blue that almost made his skin glow in contrast, even in the yellowish lamplight.

Leaning on the doorframe, Richie watched them. They weren’t really cuddling, but there was no space between them either. It was like they were magnets, drawn together in a sort of fated apathy. Their dark eyes focused on the television as if it held the secret to life or some shit. So serious.

“Hey, Hannibal,” Eddie said, not once taking his eyes off the screen. “You coming in or you gonna keep staring?”

“How did you know I was there?” Richie demanded, plopping down next to him. 

“Peripheral vision?” 

On the TV, a man ladled liquid soap into molds. Richie scoffed to himself. These nerds were watching a documentary on soap—fucking _soap_! 

"Oi, guvna, tha's a lotta jizz." British Guy cackled.

"Beep beep," Eddie said, voice as flat as his eyebrows. 

"But Eds, even you have to admit that—" 

"—It’s just soap, ya fuckin' weirdo. Not everything that looks like jizz, is." 

"But what if it is jizz? What if that's the secret ingredient?" 

Eddie buried his face in his hands. "That's fucking disgusting." 

"That's not—"

"—Can we please watch our documentary? Stan's been looking forward to it all week.” 

"Why?" 

"For my…for my episodes,” Stan said. “I want to know what type of soap is best for removing bacteria without stripping all the moisture from my skin. I might make my own." Stan held out his hands, which were bright red and cracked. 

It was like a punch to the gut. Richie was so fucking selfish. Of course _Stan_ wanted to know about soap. 

Eddie grabbed Stan’s wrists and examined his hands. “What the hell, Stanley? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry, baby.” 

"Sorry," Richie whispered, standing and striding from the room. 

There was nothing left to do but go to bed. In his own bed. Better to stare into the shadows, wondering, rather than _being underfoot_ , as his mom would say. It’s funny how even the nicest moms have a way of slipping splinters under your skin. 

Eventually, everyone else would go to bed, too, either in the shared room or paired off in their own. Then, Richie, painfully awake, would open his door and play the game of identifying his loves by their snores, sighs, and moans. 

Inevitably, he’d take his loneliness in hand and wring his cock dry, hoping the orgasm would knock him out. It probably wouldn’t. 

Richie climbed the stairs with a painful slowness. Really, he was lucky they even let him be here. A guy like Richie would die alone if he didn't kill an alienspiderclown dead before he'd grown his third pube. 

Richie Tozier, annoying trash man, his whole life—literally every fucking thing he loved about his life—built on trauma bonding. He knew the score.

Fuck, he was tired. 

They each had their own space in the house, but it only had five bedrooms. Converted from an old den, the shared room, Richie’s favorite, had the Alaskan King and the nest of soft blankets and pillows. Ben and Bev; Mike and Bill; and Stan and Eddie bunked together in the three real bedrooms. 

Richie's room was the attic. The floor, walls, and door were all soundproofed. It made sense, they said. Richie could practice his routines and play his music all he wanted without bothering anyone. 

But he knew they wanted to be able to close the door on him sometimes, to pretend he wasn’t there. Not because they didn’t love him at all, but because they loved him least. Too much trash in his mouth for him to qualify as a real partner. 

He climbed the narrow staircase to his bedroom, closed the door, considered locking it. Couldn’t. 

Two thirds of his room were devoted to music. His walls were lined with records, and his drum set, electric bass guitar, and keyboard sparkled in the stark white throw of the bare ceiling bulb. Part of Richie wanted to play, to jam out on the drums until he was covered in sweat and bleeding endorphins, but he just didn’t have the heart.

On the other side of the room, shoved against the wall under the tiny half-moon window, was his bed. It was unmade, the grey fitted sheet springing up at the left corner to expose the yellowed, full-size mattress that was old when his parents gave it to him ten years ago. 

He turned on his bedside lamp and turned off the overhead light. Leaving his clothes haphazard on the floor, he stripped to his boxers and slid under the comforter. It smelled stale and was heavy with all the things bedding collects when it’s never washed. 

The shared bed always smelled good, and it was always clean. 

He rolled to his side and the mattress crunched and dipped dramatically under his hip. He should replace it, but that felt like defeat. 

Richie opened the comic he kept on the nightstand: an old Spiderman that had bent in half one of the times Eddie jumped up in the hammock with him. He wished Eddie would do that now. He would be horrified at the state of Richie’s bed and make him sleep somewhere else. 

But Eddie never came up here. No one did. 

Richie tossed the comic across the room. Might as well sleep, make this night end faster. He set his glasses on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and closed his eyes. 

Of course, like his mouth, his trash brain never shut the fuck up; it conjured images, _scenarios_. Coming home. Them sitting him down at the kitchen table. 

_“Richie, honey,” Bev would say, taking his hands in hers. “We had a long talk while you were gone. We all love each other very much, but we think it would be best if we split up.”_

_“What?” He would demand, tears already stabbing at his eyes. “Why?”_

_Ben would wrap his arm around her shoulders, offering comfort, sending a message._

_“This relationship—everyone being together—was so much fun. But we’re twenty-eight. That’s almost thirty. It’s time to grow up and think about our futures.”_

_“Why does that mean we have to break up?”_

_“Adults don’t have six partners, Richie,” Ben would say. “It’s time to be monogamous. Start planning our families.”_

_Richie, looking around for support, would notice Mike and Bill holding hands, Stan and Eddie leaning against each other._

_“We’ll always be friends.”_

_“But there are_ seven _of us,” Richie would point out, hoping he misunderstood._

_Mike, jumping in, voice smooth and inoffensive as cream, would say, “we want you to stay here as long as you need. Obviously, we’ll all start finding our own places, but there’s no rush.”_

_“W-We already t-turned the shared b…b-bedroom into a game room,” Bill would add, looking pleased._

_“So. You’re all breaking up with me.” Richie would drop his head in his arms and start sobbing. No one would comfort him._

_“I’m afraid so,” Stan would say. “It’s for your own good. Now you can focus on your career—”_

Someone knocked, breaking through Richie’s thoughts. He considered snoring. 

"Richie?" Stan whispered, a sliver of yellow light slicing through the darkness. "You awake?" 

Richie grunted. 

Opening the door, Stan flicked the switch, burning Richie’s eyeballs. Eyes closed, Richie fumbled for his glasses and slid them on. 

Apparently, Stan’s maiden ship had capsized. His tie was gone and his work shirt was unbuttoned to the sweet dip of his naval. His reading glasses dangled precariously from his shirt pocket, and his chest was flushed. 

“What did Eds _do_ to you?” 

Color rose high in Stan’s cheeks. 

“You look like you’ve been attacked by a mongoose in heat,” Richie continued. 

“He did that thing where he…you know.” Stan looked down, flush deepening, like when they were kids and Beverly would aim her neon sign charm at him until he melted into an embarrassed puddle. “I came to see if you would join us.” 

Richie’s heart beat out a wild _yes_ , then sunk back into his stomach. "You know, that’s okay. I’ll just sleep here tonight." 

Stan’s forehead wrinkled. He slid his reading glasses on. 

“You never want to sleep in here,” Stan said. The bed crunched under his weight. He pressed his cool hand to Richie’s forehead and peered down at him. “Are you sick?” 

“No.” Richie batted his hand away and sat up against the headboard. 

Stan’s forehead wrinkle deepened. “Then…why? It’s disgusting in here.” 

“I love trash,” Richie blurted. 

“ _What?_ ” 

“You know, Muppets! _Sesame Street_! You and Eds are Bert and Ernie and I’m Oscar in his friggin’ can.” 

Stan blinked very slowly. “Am I Bert or Ernie?” 

“I dunno, Staniel. You do the math. You like baths and have a grumpy boyfriend with the world’s flattest fucking eyebrows.” 

“So do you.” 

“Yeah, but I’m in the trashcan!” Richie crossed his arms, hard. 

Stan stared at him. “You don’t…you don’t have to be in here. You can come downstairs.” 

Richie looked at the thick patina of dust on the windowsill. “I’m trying to stay out of the way.” 

“Why would you be in the way?” 

Richie shrugged. 

Stan rolled his eyes and smoothed a hand over Richie’s head. Like a lonely dog, Richie leaned into the touch. 

Stan smirked. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing! I’m fine and dandy. Super stoked to get some alone time, ya know?”

Stan stroked Richie’s hair, leeching tension from his muscles against his will. 

“Richie, you slept in your parents’ room until you were eight years old. Your father had to lock you in your bedroom every night for a month. And then you had sleepovers almost every fucking weekend until we moved in together. Last time you tried to sleep up here, I woke to you on top of me and Eddie because you couldn’t fit between us.” 

Richie’s face heated. “What’s your point?” 

“You hate being alone,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Obviously.” 

“Well maybe it’s time I learned to like it.” Richie picked at a hangnail.

“Why?” Stan ran his fingernails over Richie’s scalp, sending tingles of pleasure through his body. 

Richie would miss this, him.

“I’m an adult and stuff.” Tears burned behind Richie’s eyes. He blinked them back and tried to duck away from Stan’s hand. “Eddie’s probably waiting for you.” 

"You know, you’re not very subtle.” Stan traced Richie's lower lip with the lightly calloused edge of his thumb. “Tell me what’s wrong.” 

Stan looked at him with the kind of studied peering he normally saved for birds and puzzles. Like a knife to the gut, the attention flayed Richie open. 

“I had a rough day, alright?” Richie said. “And then I came home and you were all paired off and no one…none of you wanted me around.” 

Stan frowned. 

“It’s fine! I get it.” Richie gestured wildly. “You need a break from the Trashmouth. You can say.” 

Stan muttered something to himself, then grabbed Richie’s hands. Stan’s hands were still pink, but they were soft, and all his cracks were closed. Eddie took good care of him. 

“I don’t need a break from you, you dumbass,” Stan said. “You should have stayed.” 

"Eddie didn’t seem to want me there.” Stan’s hands were so warm. What would Richie do when there was no one left to hold his hands?

"He did. He was upset you left." 

"Oh." 

"What's really going on?” Stan asked gently, his expression so soft Richie had to look away. “It’s not like you to isolate yourself.” 

“I didn't want to interrupt your soap thing."

"That's never bothered you before.” He rolled his eyes. “I will deny this if anyone asks, but I like your stupid jokes.” 

“You do?” 

“Uh, yeah. I record my shows for a reason, you moron.” 

"I'm sorry," Richie blurted. 

Breathing faster, Stan tightened his grip until Richie’s knuckles ground together. "It's…it’s okay, Rich. Please, just…what happened today?"

"I found out I'm going on tour," he whispered. 

Stan squinted. "But…isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yeah, but I'll be away four whole months. Just me and empty hotel rooms." 

“I see.” Whole body relaxing, Stan pressed a kiss to Richie’s knuckles that half-melted his insides. “And you came home, saw us paired off, and decided we wouldn't miss you, right?" 

Richie's face flamed. Why did Stan have to be so fucking smart? Egghead. 

“Oh, Richie.” Stan tugged on Richie’s hands. "Come here, doofus." 

Richie crawled out from under the covers and straddled Stan’s lap, slipping off his glasses and tucking his face in the crook of Stan’s neck. With his warm cedar smell blanketing him, Richie almost felt safe. 

"I am so proud of you,” Stan said, wrapping his arms around his waist. 

Richie swallowed his tears, but couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I’m scared, Stanley.” 

“Oh, baby.” Stan kissed his head softly. “It’ll be okay. We’ll miss you so much, but we’ll come see you when we can, and we’ll talk every day.” 

"What if...what if the others don't…don’t want to?" Richie cringed into Stan’s neck. He sounded about five years old. Actually, Richie was probably more emotionally competent when he _was_ five. 

"They’ll want to. They love you.”

“But—”

“Richie. Look at me.” Stan leaned back until Richie let go, then gently cradled his face. 

Everything narrowed to Stan. The heat of his hands, the green flecks in his eyes, the curl spiraling across his forehead. 

“They will, I promise.” 

“But what if you’re wrong?" Richie whispered.

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “But even if I was, do you think I would leave you alone?” 

“No,” Richie said, wishing he could disappear. He would deserve it. 

“Good. If all else fails, you have me. I’m not going anywhere, okay?” Stan’s hazel eyes were liquid and fierce, fixed on Richie like he was the only person in the universe. “I promise.”

Richie’s heart pounded. “I love you, Staniel.”

"I love _you_ , Dick." Stan tugged Richie down and kissed him. At first, it was the honey sweet kiss of lips closed, but then Stan deepened it, licking into Richie’s mouth.

Electricity sparked down Richie’s back and into his groin. He opened his mouth wider, accepting everything, anything. Grateful for the distraction. Grateful for the slick press of Stan’s tongue that meant he wanted Richie. 

Stan pressed closer and slid his hands down the back of Richie’s boxers, squeezing his ass in aching handfuls that spread him open and sent a wave of heat to his belly.

Richie would never get tired of the way sex set Stan loose, like a regal housecat dosed with catnip. Feral. He ground his already hard cock into Stan’s firm, toned belly. Stan moaned low in his throat and sucked the tip of Richie’s tongue into his mouth. 

God, Richie could die right now and it would be perfect. 

Stan squeezed again, then pulled back from the kiss, panting, mouth wet. Like a magnet, Richie was drawn back for several more small kisses, peppering them like rainfall on Stan’s slick skin. 

Too soon, Stan smacked Richie’s ass and nudged him off his lap. 

"C'mon funny man,” he said, voice pitched lower, grin lopsided. “Let's go tell the others how brilliant you are." 

Richie got up, slipped his glasses back on, and pressed a hand to his cock, willing it to go down. Thinking of Eddie’s mom. Of Eddie’s mom calling him a monster, calling him—

“Nope.” Stan pulled his hand away. "You're going like this." 

Richie blushed. "It's like that?" 

"Yep." Stan landed another stinging slap. "And fuck you, by the way. I am not Ernie.” 

“Okay, Scooter.” 

“Animal.” 

“Stan the man gets off a good one!” Richie whooped. For someone with like, three facial expressions, Stan was a goddamned chuckspert. He should be the one going on tour. 

Stan rolled his eyes. “There you are.” 

As they made their way to the shared bedroom, Richie’s erection began to flag. Nerves coursed through his veins and tightened like a vise around his stomach. What if Stan was wrong, and the others were happy to be rid of Richie? Would Stan pick Richie over Eddie? Fuck, Richie couldn’t let that happen. Then Eddie would be all alone and he wouldn’t have anyone to reassure him when he was sick that he was actually sick or rub his back when he couldn’t sleep or watch dumb documentaries. And he couldn’t let Bill, Bev, Ben, or Mike be alone either. Fuck. 

Stan, one of the sharpest pencils in their box, sighed and pushed Richie against the wall next to the bathroom door. Forearms on either side of Richie’s head, he leaned his whole weight against his front. All at once, the screaming in Richie’s brain lowered to a murmur. 

“Richie,” Stan whispered, his face so close that Richie could feel the wet heat of his mouth, “we’ve been together since we were kids. Why would we want to get rid of you now?” 

“Opportunity? I’ve never been gone that long.”

“So?” 

“So maybe you’ll realize that killing a space clown isn’t a reason to keep an annoying asshole around.” 

Stan rolled his eyes so hard Richie thought for sure they’d pop out. “There’s a difference between being insecure and deliberately obtuse, you know.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Here’s a pop quiz, genius. How long have I been in love with you?” 

Richie squirmed. “Uh, well, Bev says we all fell in love that horrible summer with…with…you know. Space clown.”

“Nope.” Stan smirked. “It happened when we were ten.” 

Richie’s heart dropped to his feet. “What? Why?” 

Stan wound one of Richie’s curls around his index finger. “My OCD was especially bad, but no one knew I was sick yet. Everyone treated me like I was being unreasonable on purpose. Except you.” 

“I know what that’s like,” Richie muttered.

“I know.” Stan smiled. “You’d forget sometimes and make fun of me, but you tried. On this particular occasion, I dropped my fork on the table during lunch. I couldn’t pick it up, because if I did I would have to wash my hands, and we weren’t allowed to leave the cafeteria. I couldn’t keep eating, because I thought spoons were evil at the time. I couldn’t do anything but sit there.” 

“You were right. Spoons are evil.” 

“Shh. This is the good part. You scooped up the fork and left. A few minutes later you came back with a new one, rolled in a napkin so I knew it didn’t touch anything. I thought I was dying, my heart beat so hard. Then you told one stupid joke after another until I snapped at you.” 

“I wanted you to eat,” Richie said, voice sounding weak to his own ears. “I knew I could help, so I did. I wasn’t trying…I wasn’t trying anything.” 

Stan smoothed Richie’s hair back from his face. “I know. You were just being you. And I love you. I will always love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Richie said, chest swelling with pride for his Stanley, both as a little boy and now. So full of fear and anxiety, so brave to keep trying, to keep fighting the good fight against the monsters that lived inside him. 

“It’s not just me.” Stan smirked. “All of us love you for exactly the screwball you are. You’ll see.” 

Richie nodded, swallowing against the thick knot in his throat. 

Stan stepped back and held out his hand. “Trust me?” 

Richie took it, careful of the cracks. “I do.” 

Smiling his shallow, beautiful smile, Stan tugged Richie through the open door that lead to the shared bedroom. 

Everyone else was already there, in various stages of dress. Eddie, in long red shorts and a black tank top, sat in the middle of the bed, Bev’s head in his lap. He stroked her short, flaming hair with his usual deliberateness as he ranted. 

Bev, eyes closed, smiled peacefully. One of her hands scraped through Eddie’s leg hair, the other was tucked in the pocket of her long, pink silk robe. Her feet, bare except for purple polish, were in Bill’s lap. 

Bill, clad in full black sweats and a blue flannel shirt, was sketching, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. 

On the loveseat, Ben leaned against Mike’s chest, holding the novel they were reading. Mike turned the pages with one hand and held Ben with the other. They both wore tan cardigans like the sweet nerds they were. 

It was a beautiful scene, fit for some renaissance artist to paint. Richie hated to disturb it. He wanted to sit and watch and love them where they could not touch him. 

Stan sighed and shot him a stern look. "Richie's got news, guys.” 

Everyone snapped to attention like puppies offered treats. Ben even closed his novel, marking his place with his index finger.

Richie longed for the dusty confines of his room. He could have been playing drums, losing himself in the physicality of music, endorphins surging through his veins. But he wasn’t. He cleared his throat. “Uh, well…you guys are gonna get rid of me for four months.” 

They stared at him. Eddie’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Bev sat up, frowning. Face flushing, Bill dropped his sketchbook on Bev’s feet. Ben and Mike untangled, setting their novel aside unbookmarked. 

Richie stared back, terror clogging his throat. 

“Oh, for…” Stan pinched Richie’s ass. Hard. 

Richie jumped. “Ow, Stan, holy shit, fuck you.” 

“Tell them where you’re going, dipshit,” he hissed. 

“Oh, uh.” Richie pushed his smudged glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m going on tour.” 

There was a pause. Then, the room exploded into cheers. 

"Richie! That's amazing." Bev hopped off the bed and launched herself into Richie’s arms. He caught her by the waist and buried his face in her soft, jasmine-scented hair. 

“Thanks, Bev,” he said. Eyes misting over, he set her down. 

“I knew you could do it,” she said fiercely, grabbing his face and kissing him hard. “I am so fucking proud of you.” 

When Bev finally stepped back, smiling so hard it looked like it hurt, Bill was there.

“Congratulations,” Bill said, wrapping his arms around Richie’s waist and pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I’m p-proud of you.” 

“Thanks, Big Bill,” Richie said, leaning down to kiss him, soft and wet and a little desperate. Bill always smelled inky from writing longhand and sketching in pen. The scent took Richie right back to childhood, to golden summers spent in the grass with him and Georgie.

After a brief, sweet moment, Bill stepped back and clapped Richie on the shoulder. “Finally, the nation will get to appreciate your Class A dick jokes.”

“It’s about time, man.” Richie forced a grin. 

"That's awesome, Rich," Eddie said, half-hidden behind Bev. "Really. But...how does that work? Are we not gonna see you at all for four whole months?" 

"Why? Gonna miss me or something, Spaghetti-man?" 

"Maybe, asshole." He kicked the ground. 

Stan reached over, fingers like pincers, but Richie jumped out of the way. 

“Hold your fire Stanmiral Urine! I get it.” 

Stan raised his eyebrows, but his hand retreated. 

“I don’t know, Eds. It depends. I might be able to come home every now and again.” Richie took a deep breath. “You guys can always come see me. If you want.” Richie tried to smile, but it was not his best work. 

"Of course we want, dumbass." Eddie's eyebrows were a flat line. He pulled Richie into a rough, motor-oil-and-leather hug. "I’m really gonna miss you, you fuckin’ idiot."

Richie, bent like a question mark, buried his face in the warm, scratchy line of Eddie’s neck, traitor tears leaking out of his eyes. Eddie tightened his grip, pressed a kiss to Richie’s forehead, then pulled back. 

"I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Eddie murmured, producing a tissue and dabbing at his cheeks. Richie counted and recounted the burst of freckles on Eddie’s nose until the tears stopped and he could breathe again. 

Eddie kissed him, sort and sweet. “I’m proud of you, Rich.” 

“Thanks, Eds.” 

“We’re all so proud of you,” Mike said, gently turning Richie around, “and we will miss you so much.” 

“It’s t-true,” Bill said. 

Mike cupped Richie’s face in his big hands, which were thickly callused from years of farm work and taking care of their garden. “I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” Richie said, tears building up behind his eyes again. “I love you all so fucking much.” 

Mike kissed him softly, flooding his nose with the must of old books and the musk of Mike. When the kiss ended, Richie leaned against his broad chest. He always felt safer in Mike’s arms than anywhere else. 

Too soon, he released his grip and Richie had to step back. As soon as they separated, Ben wrapped his arms around Richie’s waist and pulled him into a strong hug. 

“You don’t have to worry, you know,” Ben said, voice muffled by Richie’s shoulder. “We’re not going anywhere.”

“You…you promise?” Richie cringed at himself, face flaming. 

“Of course. _Of course_ I promise.” Ben pulled away and grabbed Richie’s shoulders, looking him dead in the eye. “We will be right here, waiting for you, when you come back. I promise, Richie.” 

It was all too much. Richie buried his face in Ben’s shoulder, glasses and all, and cried. He tried to be very quiet and stop shaking, so the others wouldn’t know, but there was nowhere to hide and soon they all crowded around him. 

Ben ran his fingers along Richie’s spine in soothing lines. “You were really worried about that, huh?” 

He nodded, biting back another sob. Someone wound their fingers in his hair. 

"Oh, baby." Bev tucked herself into Richie’s side and kissed his ribcage. "It's okay.”

He took deep breaths until the tears stopped again. He wanted to stay in the warm tangle, but the voice in his head, the one as familiar as his own, was screaming that it was too much, that he was too much. If he allowed himself to be as needy as he was, as bloody-knee raw, their love for him would rot in their hearts and they would learn to hate him.

“Wow.” Richie sniffed, pulling back. “Sorry to ruin the upholstery, Haystack.” 

Ben rolled his eyes. “I’ll wash.” 

“Are you okay?” Eddie asked, gently untangling a knot in Richie’s hair. 

Richie faced him, grinning like a skeleton. “I’m just fine and dandy, Spaghetti-O, how ‘bout you?” 

“Oh, you know. Just wondering where my partner got the idea I wouldn’t miss him. Any insights?” Eddie’s voice was hard and flat as pavement, but Richie knew well enough that the ground beneath was soft. 

“Dunno what to tell you, Edster. Guess I got jizz for brains.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes. “You’ve got something. That’s for sure.” 

“Exactly, man. I’m just…I dunno, wired wrong. It’s why my charm is so devastating.” 

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, his battle stance. The knots in Richie’s stomach tightened; he wanted them to laugh at him so much it burned. 

“Well then, tell us where your wires got crossed,” Mike broke in, smooth as cream. “Please.” 

Suddenly too hot, Richie nudged out of the cocoon of their bodies and plopped on the loveseat. “I’m a comedian, Micycle, not a mechanic.”

Bev stomped through the group and grabbed Richie’s face, staring at him with laser focus. “We are your family. If you don’t feel comfortable telling us what’s wrong, that is _fine_. But I wish you would.” 

“W-Why?” 

“Because I love you. And it hurts me to know I might have hurt you.” Her blue eyes gleamed against her pale face. “I want to know what I did so I don’t do it again.” 

“You didn’t hurt me, Bevs,” Richie whispered, throbbing with pain at the look on her face. “Nobody did. It’s just my brain being dumb.” 

“What’s your brain telling you, sweetheart?”

Richie looked down, tried to focus on the way her clavicle cut across the neck of her robe. “That one day you guys’ll pair off and leave me alone.” 

Bev dropped her hands. “What are you talking about?” 

“You guys all have your special someone, ‘cept me. I’m number seven. ‘S cool. I’m happy I’m here at all.” Legs shaking, Richie gnawed on his inner cheek and kept his eyes down. He could tell everyone was staring at him. He wished he could melt into the couch, slip through the cracks and disappear. 

After a beat of silence, Bill spoke up, voice roughshod and fierce. “What do you mean, we all have our ‘special someone?’”

“I don’t know,” Richie said, throat tightening. “It’s just…you and Homeschool got your book writing, Bevis and Haystack are their own little married couple…fuck, Edwardo and Stándale are already grumpy old husbands yelling at kids to get off the lawn.”

“But we all have things like that with each other.” Bill frowned deeply. 

“I know.” Richie pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes so hard his vision was still blurry when he put them back on. “Can we forget I said anything, please?” 

“Why?” he demanded. “So you can go back to bottling it up?”

Richie felt a kinship with cells under a microscope, pinned on a slide so people could look inside them. He wished he was wearing more clothes. “I don’t know.” 

“I can’t forget.” Bill knelt, hands on Richie’s knees. His eyes were a gas flame, burning out of their sockets. “I can’t forget you’re in p…p-pain.” 

“I’ll be fine.” Richie sighed. “I’m just being dumb. What else is new?” 

“You’re…you’re not dumb, Rich.” 

“That’s a laugh and a half,” he muttered. 

Bill closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Will you p-please just explain?” 

“Explain what? Why I’m a dumbass fuckup? You’ve known me most of our lives, man, you tell me.” 

“You’re not dumb or a fuckup,” Bill said, his voice wound tight, like he was holding his breath, like he was holding himself in. 

Richie never could keep his fingers off a bruise. “A liar, methinks the young master is,” he croaked.

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Bill exploded, and god, it was like fire in Richie’s gunpowder. “Why the fuck do you think you’re number seven?” 

“I don’t know, Billiam. Why does everyone else get a roommate, and I’m alone in the attic?” Richie demanded.

“Rich—” Bev tried to break in, but Richie couldn’t stop the words, they were flowing out like lava, uprooting trees and blanketing the world in ash.

“Just face it. You guys are only with me because of that stupid clown. I’m _lucky_ to be number seven. It’s the best goddamned thing that ever happened to me. I’ll remember it fondly when I’m the creepy gay uncle to your children.” 

“Rich—” 

“And now I’m leaving for four months. Think that’s enough time to figure out how to let me down easy, or should I try to make it five?” 

“ _Richard!_ ” 

“Oh my god, what?” 

“Let me get this straight,” Bev demanded, hands fisted at her sides. “You think that our love for you, that this whole relationship, is a lie? That we’re just gonna…what? Pick a person?”

“I…” 

“Is that how you feel? Are you gonna pick someone and stop loving the rest of us?” 

“Of course not.” Richie shrank back against the cushions. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just keep his stupid thoughts in his stupid head? 

“Who’s your number one? Who’s your number _six_?”

“I can’t…” 

Bev burst into tears. 

“Oh, Bevs. Please don’t cry.” Richie itched to hold her. “I couldn’t choose. I love all of you. I don’t want to be without any of you.”

“Why can’t you believe we feel the same way about you?” Bev demanded. 

Glaring at Richie, Bill handed her a tissue and wrapped an arm around her waist. Dabbing her eyes, she leaned into his body. A tear rolled down her cheek. 

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Richie scrubbed at his face, hands coming back wet. “I didn’t mean to upset anyone. I’ll…I’ll go back to my room.” 

“Please don’t go,” Eddie interjected, face pale. “We— _I_ don’t want you to go. I just…I don’t…” 

As Ben pulled Eddie close, something in Richie’s gut shattered. Richie buried his face in his hands and failed to stop his face from leaking.

“I think I understand,” Mike said after a long moment. He sat and rubbed long, warm circles down Richie’s bare back. “This isn’t really about us, is it?” 

Richie shook his head slowly and sat up a little, but not enough to dislodge Mike’s hand. 

“You feel like you’re not enough, like you’re our annoying friend we just put up with because we’re too polite to tell you to fuck off, right?” 

Richie nodded, face blazing. 

“You can’t imagine why we love you, so instead you imagine that we don’t.” 

Mike’s tone was so gentle it wouldn’t blow the dust off a butterfly, but his words were like sharp knives, flaying Richie the rest of the way open. He couldn’t stop the tears anymore, so he just let them come. 

Bev’s face softened, but Bill looked even more murderous. Eddie’s eyes were glassy. Ben stroked the back of Eddie’s neck, pale and frowning. Stan was gone. 

Richie took off his glasses and cried harder. Mike pulled him into a hug and stroked his hair until the warmth and pressure quieted his sobs. 

The couch dipped next to Richie. 

“Sit up,” Stan said. 

“Where’d you go?” Richie sniffed. 

“Just to get this.” Stan held up a wet washcloth, then began gently wiping Richie’s face clean. 

“Oh.” 

“You’re very messy,” Stan said. “But that’s okay, because you’ll always have us to help you clean up.” 

Richie swallowed back fresh tears. “I hope so.” 

“You will.” Stan dabbed at his nose. “I promise. Now blow.” 

When Stan finished, Mike pulled Richie close again, tucking him under his arm. 

“When did these feelings start?” Mike asked. 

Richie buried his bare, still-burning face in Mike’s chest. “When I was a kid, I guess. I get them on and off. But today I got home and…I don’t know. This is really stupid. Can we please pretend I didn’t say anything?” 

“We can’t. I’m sorry.” Mike’s voice softened and deepened, rumbling through his chest like a lullaby. “Will you please let us help you?”

“Fine.” Richie sighed. “You guys pair up a lot, okay? It’s usually fine, but today I got home and no one seemed to want me around. It hurt my feelings and brought up some shit.” 

“Like what?” 

Richie blew out a long breath. “I guess I’m scared you guys’ll realize you’re better off without me while I’m on tour and when I come back all this…my whole life…will be over.” 

Mike stroked his arm. 

“I told you it was stupid.” 

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Mike soothed. “I just think your perspective is a little skewed.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I think we all feel like ‘number seven’ sometimes, but it’s not true. You’re an essential part of our relationship. We wouldn’t work without you.” 

“Do you mean that?” 

“Yes. You’re so smart and kind as well as funny.” Mike smiled and smoothed a hand over Richie’s face. “I know I can come to you with any problem and you’ll be there for me, even if all you can do is make me smile.” 

“You are my favorite person to hang out with,” Bev said, voice thick. “You dance with me even though we suck at it, we have the best talks, and you always put me to bed after with an orgasm and a story from Lederhosen Larry because you know I like him best.” 

“We would be lost without you, man,” Ben added. “We’re a family. I couldn’t…I couldn’t be with just one person after having all of you.” 

“Then why do you make me stay in the attic?” Richie asked, hope blossoming in his chest. 

“You play, like, ten instruments, remember?” Bill said, an edge to his voice. “You needed a music room. You never have to sleep in there if you don’t want to. Have any of us ever kicked you out of any of the beds in this house?” 

“I guess not,” Richie whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mike said. He kissed the top of Richie’s head. “Just next time, please talk to us. We can’t help you if we don’t know what’s going on.” 

“I’ll try, but you know comedians. Sad, dramatic assholes, every single one of us.” Richie sat up.

“Maybe you should consider therapy,” Ben said. 

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.” Stan shrugged. “It’s really helped me deal with my OCD.” 

“And Eddie and me with our…our parents,” Bev added. “Maybe all of us should go together.” 

“Guys, I can barely talk to you about my feelings. How am I supposed to talk to some stranger?” 

“Sometimes it’s easier to talk to a stranger than to someone you love.” Stan pressed a kiss to the hard place between Richie’s eyes. “Just think about it, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

A silence fell. No one seemed to know what to do next. Hell if Richie had any idea. 

“Do you guys want to go to bed or are you still up for some fun?” Stan asked finally. 

“For the love of Christ, some fun, please,” Richie said.

“Yes. Fun,” Ben agreed. 

“I think I need some fun,” Bev said. 

Stan kissed Richie, open and wet. When he pulled away, he ran his fingers through Richie’s chest hair. “Go prep thoroughly while we set the scene.”

Richie slid on his glasses and hurried to the ensuite. He closed the door, sat on the toilet, and put his head between his knees. His breathing was wrong, his glasses were too smudged to see out of, he needed to fix it, he didn’t know how…

Then there was someone knocking on the door. Why? Didn’t they have enough of him? Couldn’t he have five minutes to process how awful a person he is without an audience? 

Without waiting for a response, the door opened, and Eddie slid inside, clicking the lock behind him. “Richie,” he breathed, sounding almost surprised, “what’s wrong?” 

His thick brows were drawn together, all the hard lines of Eddie softened into worry. More guilt pulled Richie’s guts into his groin. 

“Nothing, Spaghetti. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over me.” 

“Too late, numbnuts.” Eddie plucked the glasses from Richie’s face, bridge first. “These are really gross. How can you see anything?” 

“I can’t.” 

Eddie sighed heavily and rummaged around in the medicine cabinet, muttering to himself. Richie stared at his knees, guts heavy and squirming. 

After a few minutes and more noises, Eddie slid the glasses back on Richie’s face. They were damp, and Eddie did not get the frames tucked behind his ears properly, but they were completely, frightening clean in a way Richie had never been able to achieve. 

“Yowza.” Richie said, straightening them. “I might have to hire you as my official cleaning guy.” 

“Only if that means I get to come with you on tour,” Eddie muttered. 

Richie’s heart skittered. “Would you really come with me?” 

“I can’t, because of my job.” He sighed and sat on the edge of the bathtub. “But yeah. I would.”

Tears pressed against the back of Richie’s eyes. He blinked them away. 

“I’m not…I’m not good at this stuff, the way the others are. I didn’t…my mom…she didn’t really encourage emotional honesty, you know?” Eddie fiddled with the hem of his shirt. 

“I know.”

“And it’s hard, with all the others. They…you know, everyone wants to talk at once.” His deep brown eyes bored into Richie. “But I need.” He swallowed. “I need you to know I’m gonna miss you.” 

“Aw, Eds. I’m gonna miss you, too.” 

“Another thing.” He grabbed Richie’s hand and squeezed so hard his knuckles whitened. It hurt, but Richie would rather lose his hand than make Eddie feel bad about expressing himself. “I know I’m not Stan, or Bill, or Mike, or anyone. But I want you to feel like you can talk to me about anything.” 

Eddie’s face was set in that hard-determined way it always was when he was being extra brave, like when he would jump in the quarry or play a losers-only game of Post Office. Richie’s heart swelled. He tugged on Eddie’s arm until he softened and allowed Richie to pull him onto his lap. 

“Spagheds, love of my life, frost to my flake.” 

A flush slid up Eddie’s face even as he wrinkled his nose. 

“It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to _you_. I knew my feelings weren’t exactly, uh, rational, so I didn’t want to tell _anyone_.” 

“How’d Stan find out, then?” 

“He came to get me and saw that I was all not happy and shit and pestered me until I talked.” 

“It should’ve been me,” Eddie said fiercely. “I noticed something was up downstairs. I should have checked on you.” 

“Baby, it’s okay.” Strands of Eddie’s hair slipped through Richie’s fingers like corn silk. “I should have been honest about my feelings. I just didn’t want to hurt you.” 

“I’d rather be hurt than in the dark.” 

“Noted.” Richie pressed a smacking kiss to Eddie’s left dimple. “I promise I’ll do better, okay?” 

“Me too.” Eddie kissed him. It was sweet and short, a glittering thing Richie wanted to put in his pocket. 

“I should probably prep so Stan doesn’t pop a vessel,” Richie grumbled. 

“Want some help? I kinda…you know.” 

“Me too.” Richie kissed the best freckle on Eddie’s nose. “You’re better at it than me, anyway.”


	2. Chapter 2

When they came out twenty minutes later, you could have eaten off any part of Richie. Like, you could have put a banana up his—never mind. The point was, Spaghetti-Man missed his calling as a Richie cleaning, Richie caring service, and Richie was glowing. It’s like Eddie reached in and grabbed all the bad feelings and threw them away. For now. 

The rest of his loves were fully dressed and waiting. Ben and Stan were talking on the loveseat, heads bent low together. Bev was perched on Mike’s lap, laughing and pressing kisses to his cheeks. Bill sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Richie, a dangerous glint in his eye. He tilted his head toward the center of the room…toward the sex throne. Set up over a thick towel. 

Richie swallowed and straightened the band on his boxers.

They almost never used it. It was one of Ben’s special creations, requested by Bill because they couldn't find what he wanted at an adult outlet and shopping online for sex stuff wasn't quite a thing yet. 

The whole week or so it took him to finish it, Ben was tomato red and wouldn't talk to anyone. To snap him out of it, Bill strapped a very naked, very wet Beverly in. 

Then Ben couldn't talk for a different reason. 

Richie has fond memories of that day locked in his spank bank. Who needs porn when you're in a relationship with six of the hottest people on the planet? Yowza. 

The sex throne was an adjustable, assless chair. The back was thickly padded and angled slightly backward, with a thin curved lip at the base for its victim's tailbone, or for additional padding to take pressure off the lower back, depending. 

Jutting out on either side of the seat were two stirrups and stretched above were padded wrist shackles. The whole thing was balanced on a pole similar to a hair stylist’s chair, so that the sitter could be adjusted to match anyone’s hip height. Sleeping with an engineer had its perks. 

Stan stood and walked over to Richie, shirt buttoned up to the throat. 

“Hey, baby,” Stan said, running a hand down Richie’s chest. “You completely clean and empty for us?” 

“Abso-fucking-lutely Stanny Boy.” 

The corner of Stan’s mouth quirked, but he otherwise remained impassive as he circled behind Richie. “Go with the others for now, Eddie.” 

“Yessir.” He scurried over to stand by Bill. 

"Alright guys," Stan said, pressing against Richie’s back and wrapping a loose hand around Richie’s throat. "Let's show him just how loved he is." 

Everyone stared at him with open, winter wolf eyes as Stan ghosted fingers down Richie’s chest to his hips, and then tugged his boxers down. Richie's erection bobbed in the cool air. 

He had been having sex with his losers for ten years, but somehow, he had never gotten used to being naked in front of all of them at once, especially when they were all clothed. 

The feel of their eyes on his body raised the hair on his arms. He wanted. Oh, he wanted them all. The particular ache of emptiness flooded his gut and his face burned with all the shame he was taught to feel. 

"Bill, get him nice and loose for us. I think we'd all like a piece of him tonight. Eddie, keep his cock warm, but don't let him come." 

Richie's heart jumped as Bill approached. He wrapped an arm around Richie’s waist and yanked him bodily to the loveseat. There was an anger in the flex of his muscles that would have scared Richie, if he knew Bill a fraction less. 

Bill sat on the loveseat behind Richie, grabbed his hips and pulled him close. He parted Richie's cheeks and blew cool air on the tight ring of muscle, a sharp reminder of his vulnerability. 

Then he licked Richie’s crack, tongue wet and slick. He reached between Richie’s legs and shoved them apart until he was on his tiptoes and trembling. Bill licked lower, sucking hard on his taint, then sucked all way back up and tongued at his anus. 

"Judas fucking Priest," Richie sobbed. 

Eddie fell to his knees, his entire constellation of freckles thrown into sharp relief in the lamplight. He licked Richie's sack, sucking one ball into his mouth and holding it there, warm and wet. He released it slowly, then sucked at the base of Richie's cock. 

“Eds.” Richie groaned, his head falling back. 

Stan tweaked a nipple, and Richie opened his eyes to see Ben, Bev, and Mike sitting on the bed, watching them. Ben and Mike had their cocks out and were stroking them languidly, while Bev had her hand down her jeans and was already crying out with her first orgasm. 

Then Bill breeched his hole and fucked him rapidly with his tongue, filling him with soft, so wet heat. Eddie licked the underside of his cock in one broad stroke and sucked him down to the root, holding him there, throat working.

Richie's legs trembled. His hips didn't know where to go. Stan wrapped an arm around his waist and held him tight in place, sucking gently on Richie's pulse point.

Richie couldn’t keep track of the noises he was making anymore. His throat ached and his stomach was a bottomless pit of want. He tipped his head. 

“Kiss me?” 

Stan obliged, filling Richie’s mouth with his soft, clean tongue. 

Bill gave him one last deep lick, then pulled back. Richie heard the click of the lube, and then Bill's fingers were in him, rubbing his prostate in slow circles. 

Eddie sucked hard on his penis, keeping it in his throat so Richie was both touched everywhere, but not receiving enough friction to come. 

Stan kissed and licked down Richie’s neck, then bit his shoulder. Bill added more fingers, scissoring them to stretch him wide, wider, wider than he'd ever been. He was so open. 

“Enough,” Stan commanded. 

With slick popping noises, Eddie released his dick and Bill pulled his fingers out of his ass. 

Stan slid a hand down Richie’s back and slipped a few fingers inside his stretched rim. “Good. He’s ready.”

Stan removed his fingers and wiped them off with a handkerchief. Aching with the emptiness, he leaned into Stan’s body. His cotton button-up scraped against Richie’s skin. Too many clothes and none of them on Richie. 

Stan wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him over to the sex throne. Ben held the legs together while Richie climbed on. Stan tied the leather straps around his legs and torso, then locked his wrists in the shackles. 

"Remember your safe word?" Stan asked, adjusting the cushioning under Richie's back, neck, and knees. 

"Vatican." 

Stan kissed his forehead. "Good boy." 

Stan spread the legs of the chair until Richie's thighs burned deliciously and his ass dipped below the back of the chair, exposing his cock, balls, and gaping wet hole to the room. Then Stan locked the legs in place. 

Everyone got closer, watching with interest.

Richie was spread open, locked in place, at their mercy. They could do anything they wanted. His heart dropped into his stomach. 

"Give him your sweetest foreplay, Ben," Stan ordered before disappearing into the sex closet. 

Ben’s cheeks were pink right into his deep dimples. Richie wanted to lick them, to press his lips into the exquisite carving of his jaw. 

Ben trailed his fingers down Richie's legs, up his torso. He leaned into the cradle of Richie’s hips, worn jeans and sweater soft against the bare mound of Richie’s groin, and kissed him. It was the barest pressing of lips together, but Richie made an embarrassing noise when Ben pulled away. 

"Hey good-looking," Richie said, breathless. 

"Hey yourself," Ben said, stroking Richie's hair back. "You know how beautiful you are like this?" 

Richie shook his head. 

"Well then, let me tell you." He pressed another kiss to Richie's lips. "Your mouth is this beautiful, well-kissed deep pink. A deep summer tulip kinda pink." He stepped back, but his hands stayed on Richie's chest. "Your shoulders are so broad, and your arms and legs just go on for miles and miles. There's so much of you to touch and kiss, and there could never be enough of you.” 

Richie's face heated, the blush spreading down his chest. 

"Your nipples are a very lovely pink as well." Ben lapped at each of them with the tip of his tongue, his hand slipping over Richie’s clavicle. "I love your body hair. It's so silky—which is confusing, because I know your hygiene habits." He lowered himself to his knees. "You're equally beautiful down here. Just perfect, mouthwatering..." He took Richie in his mouth and slid a thumb in his ass. 

Richie might die, and what a way to go. 

Ben held him in his throat for a moment, soft and wet and warm. Burning to move, but unable to, Richie whined low in his throat. 

Ben pulled off with a slick pop and pressed a reverent kiss to the tip. "Beautiful." 

Stan came into view, carrying the camera and tripod. As he set it up, Richie’s whole body flamed. Ben pressed a kiss to his stomach, just below his belly button. 

"Ben's right," Stan said. "You're beautiful and we should record it." 

"Okay." Richie tried to think of a joke, but nothing came out.

Stan peered at him and Richie felt stripped to his skeleton. Exposed in every possible way, itching with the need to hide, to layer the core of himself in jokes and Voices, until he was indiscernible from the trash. Until everyone knew he _was_ the trash. 

"You know, it’s okay to safe word out, for any reason," Stan said after a long, long moment. “We’d never hold it against you.” 

"Yes, sir, Staniel.” 

Stan rolled his eyes and took the camera off the tripod. "Move a minute, Ben." 

Stan close-upped on Richie's face, and slowly moved the camera down his body, pausing to thumb at his nipples, stroke his cock, slip a finger into his dripping hole. 

Richie blushed with his whole body, the sweet, flaming humiliation concentrating in his groin so much he was afraid he’d come untouched. 

When Stan left to screw the camera back on the tripod, cool air rushed over Richie’s body. Shivering slightly, he looked out into the faces of his losers for distraction. 

They were all watching him. 

Beverly chewed on her pinkie, blue eyes glowing, short hair in vibrant disarray. Her black jeans were skin-tight and showed off the round curves of her hips and thighs. Richie wanted those thighs around his face, pronto. 

When Ben caught Richie looking, he smiled wide, his dimples deepening. All his supermodel good looks were aimed at Richie, but, god, it was that smile, that flare of Ben’s sweet personality, that made Richie burn for him. 

Behind Ben, Eddie leaned against the wall. His eyes were almost black, and his shirt rode up slightly to expose one of his whipcord hips. Eddie’s face was impassive, except for the quirk at one corner of his mouth. Richie wanted to pull him close and kiss all his tickle spots until he was grinning and swearing and close to wetting himself; 

Bill lounged on the bed, lazily palming his cock through his jeans, smirking. Richie loved when Bill was in that sort of mood. Confident. Temper flared just enough to make the sex rough, Richie aching in all sorts of pleasant ways for a week after. Richie’s cock jumped against his stomach and Bill licked his lips.

Mike sat next to Bill, his long legs splayed out, the head of his cock peeking out from the waistband of his jeans. He caught Richie’s eye and kissed Bill, contrast throwing his beautiful brown skin into sharp relief. Strong, soft, breathtaking, that was Richie’s Mikey. 

God, Richie wanted them. 

"Let's see how much cock you can take," Stan said, moving behind Richie and gripping his shoulders. "Ben, you're up.”

Ben moved to take off his pants. 

"Keep those on," Stan said. 

"Didn’t know you were such a perv," Richie snickered. 

Stan hummed and adjusted the throne so that Richie’s ass was level with Ben’s hips. 

"Condoms tonight?" Ben asked, unzipping and slipping his cock out of his pants.

"Nah. I had Richie douche for a reason. He's gonna be our come-dumpster." 

Richie shuddered. "Shit, Stan. Raw dogging it? You really are gonna miss me, aren't you?" 

“One day that will stop surprising you." Stan slipped his fingers into Richie’s mouth. He nibbled on the tips, grateful for something to focus on. 

Ben stroked lube over his cock until it was glistening, then squirted more on two fingers and slid them into Richie’s ass, rubbing it into his walls and prostate. 

Richie moaned around Stan’s fingers as Ben lined himself up and slid the slick head in Richie’s entrance. Though Richie was already stretched, Ben inched in at a snails pace, the aching burn of him stretching Richie impossibly wide. Ben was not the longest, but he was the thickest. 

When he was fully seated, the zipper of his jeans was cold against Richie’s crack and his sweater pressed into Richie’s cock.

"Fuck him slow and thorough," Stan said. “Really stretch him out.” 

Ben adjusted so that his hips took some of the pressure off Richie’s aching limbs, then started thrusting, hard and slow, switching up the angle every few thrusts until it was sliding thick against Richie’s prostate. 

Richie shuddered and tongued at Stan's fingers. He wished they were Stan’s cock. 

Ben swiveled his hips. Richie moaned out loud. Then Ben thrusted even harder, until the burning was a sharp contrast to the pleasure. 

The friction from Ben's sweater on Richie's cock was building and building. Richie’s throat ached from the strangled noises Ben was ripping out of them. Suddenly, Stan’s fingers were gone. 

"I'm gonna...I'm gonna..." Richie panted, impossibly full. 

"Gonna what, baby?" Ben asked, stilling his thrusts and stroking a hand down Richie's furred stomach. 

"Gonna fucking come just from that, holy shit." 

"No, you're not," Stan said, sliding Richie’s glasses off his face. Richie’s world narrowed; there was only Stan and Ben. 

Ben stepped closer until they were pressed chest to chest, Richie’s leaking cock trapped between them. 

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” Ben said, kissing Richie’s eyebrow. “You can let go.” 

Embarrassingly, a few stray tears fell down Richie’s cheeks. Why was this his reaction to everything?

Ben wiped them away, dimples deepening. “That’s it. Let it all out.” 

A hand on Richie’s shoulder, Stan lowered the back of the throne until Richie's erection bobbed harmlessly onto his stomach and his face was just below Stan’s crotch. 

Stan unzipped his pants, and god he was hard and beautiful, how did Richie get so lucky, holy shit, and then slipped into Richie’s open mouth, resting. His nose was at the base of Stan’s sack, and he nuzzled in as much as possible. Just here, he smelled the most like himself, musky and slightly woody, and Richie couldn’t get enough. 

And then Ben was fucking him again and there was no more friction on his cock, but it kept bouncing against his stomach and he wanted god he wanted a mouth he wanted to come but he didn't want it to end. 

Too soon, Ben’s hips stuttered and he came with a low groan, spilling his load deep inside Richie. “Jesus fucking—” 

“Christ,” Richie said when Stan slid out of his mouth. “That thing should be illegal.” 

Rolling his eyes, Stan adjusted Richie back into a sitting position. Face flushed, sleek hair dripping with sweat, Ben kissed Richie sloppy and desperate. 

“I love you,” he said when he pulled away. 

“Love you, too, man.” Richie panted. “Holy shit.” 

"Your turn, Mikey," Stan said, adjusting the throne up few inches. "Fuck him, but don’t let him come." 

Mike lubed up, then slid inside him easily, painlessly, seating so deep Richie swore he could feel him in the back of his throat. Mike moved slow, snail slow, concentrating his thrusts on Richie’s prostate. The friction of his sweater on Richie’s cock was too sluggish to give him relief. 

“You’re both doing so well,” Stan said, fastening pliers clamps to Richie’s nipples, tightening just enough that Richie could feel the weight of them all the way to his groin. 

“How you feeling?” Mike asked, resting his forehead on Richie’s, still thrusting in short waves. 

“Like I wanna come, Homeschool. How ‘bout you?” 

Mike chuckled and kissed his nose. “I meant emotionally,” he said, double thrusting against Richie’s prostate and dragging a cry from his throat. 

“Only you…” Richie panted. “Only you would want to know my emotional state—” he gasped sharply, “with your cock all the way up my ass.” 

Mike tugged gently on the chain connecting the clamps, sending sparks of pleasurepain through Richie. “There isn’t a situation in which I wouldn’t want to know about your emotional state.” He thrusted hard, gasped. “So, spill.” 

The thing about Mikey was that Richie couldn’t lie to him. It was fucking impossible. He looked at him with those big brown eyes and Richie’s fucking soul just opened up, like Mike had a key or something. Richie sighed. 

“I guess I sorta feel seen. Like you all peeled away my skin or some shit.” 

Mike stilled. “In a bad way?” 

Richie thought about it.

“No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t think so. I guess I’m also feeling,” he dropped his voice, “loved.” 

Mike thrusted in. “You are loved, you nerd. I love you so much.” 

“I—fuck…love you, too.” 

“Okay, lovebirds,” Stan said, a smile in his voice. “I want to see Mike come.” 

Mike thrusted a little faster and kissed Richie deep when he came, so that even Richie couldn't tell which moans belonged to whom. Mike pressed one more kiss to Richie’s nose, then slid out.

Stan stroked Richie’s chest and tugged gently at the clamp chain while dipping a finger in his belly button. It was like an electric shock to the cock. Richie shuddered. 

"Hmm, I think you’re ready for Bill, now." 

“You think?” Bill sauntered across the room and pushed three fingers into Richie’s hole. “You’re so wet. You’re fucking d…d-dripping.” 

Richie’s legs spasmed. 

“You like that?” Bill grinned and rubbed Richie’s prostate. 

“Mm, no. This is terrible,” he answered, pressing into Bill’s fingers. 

Stan lowered the throne to Bill’s hip height, then adjusted Richie back until he could slide his cock, golden and still slicked with saliva, in Richie’s mouth. 

"Fuck him like he owes you money." 

Richie’s heart dropped to his stomach. Removing his fingers with a slick pop, Bill crowded close to Richie’s ass and unzipped his pants. Richie could feel the zipper separating on his crack. 

Then, thumbs digging bruises into Richie’s hips, Bill slid inside with a smooth upward thrust. He whimpered at the stretch, full. Desperate for friction on his cock, but helpless to move or touch himself. 

“Ready?” 

Richie nodded and Bill, grin almost menacing, fucked in and out of him fast and hard, tightening the coil in his body, intensifying the burn. Bill hit the right angle and Richie saw stars. Struggling to keep his lips around his teeth, Richie sobbed around Stan’s cock. 

By the time Bill came with a fractured shout, Richie’s ass was throbbing numbly. 

“Good boy,” Bill said, patting Richie’s lower stomach. He slid out easily, dripping as he was with come and sweat. 

Stan pulled his penis from Richie’s mouth and adjusted the throne. When Richie was upright, Stan slid his fingers in him almost clinically. Hypersensitive, he spasmed around the fingers, legs straining against their bindings. 

Stan pulled his fingers out, and showed Richie their jelly-wetness. "Look at you. Such a good come slut, taking all that for us. Think you can take some more?" 

Richie nodded, ruined. _Theirs._

Stan tapped Richie’s lips. Richie sucked the wet fingers into his mouth, tasting the bitter tang of Ben, Mike, and Bill mixed together. 

"Let's get you out of this for the rest." Stan wiped his fingers on his handkerchief, then released the spreader on Richie’s legs and stood between them, his jeans pressing deliciously against Richie’s groin. He undid Richie’s wrists first, rotating each joint and rubbing feeling back into the limb. Once free, Richie wound his arms around Stan’s neck. 

“Sorry I didn’t make it to the bawl, dahling, I was a little tied up,” the British Guy said. 

Stan undid a leg. “You’ll make it up to me later,” he said with an exaggerated wink. 

Richie choked. “Stanley, I thought you didn’t want me to come yet.” 

Stan hummed and massaged Richie’s hip joint, thumbs slipping over his taint and stoking heat low in Richie’s belly, then moved on to the other leg. 

When Stan finished, Richie collapsed into his arms. Every inch of Richie ached. Stan held him close and kissed his neck. 

“I moved the bench against the loveseat,” Stan murmured. “Do you think you can make it there?” 

“I dunno. My legs feel like jelly.” 

“I’ll help.” Together, they hobbled across the bedroom floor. Richie’s thighs burned where they touched; he was going to have wicked denim rash in the morning. Stan helped Richie climb onto the padded bench on all fours, then positioned him with his hands resting on the loveseat. “You stable enough, Rich?” 

“Yessiree Bob.” 

"In that case, spread your legs as far as they'll go." 

Richie carefully shuffled his knees out, planting his shaking hands firmly. His penis hung heavy between his legs, the tip resting on the silk-cushioned surface. Stan put a hand on the inside of each of Richie’s thighs and pushed them apart a little more, until the muscles stretched to a burn. 

"Would you like to go next, Bev?" Stan ran a hand down Richie’s lower back to fix the angle, so he was spread wide, ass out, ready for her. And then his warmth was gone, replaced by the jasmine breeze of Beverly. 

“Hey, cowboy,” Bev said, scraping her nails down one of his ass cheeks. 

“Howdy.” Richie pushed into the touch and she obliged with another scrape. “That feels so good.” 

She hummed low in her throat and tucked herself against his ass. Her slicked dildo dragged across his taint. Shivering, he bucked into her hips. 

“I hear you owe my friend Bill a lot of money,” she said, pitching her voice low. “Unlucky for you, I’m collections in these parts. Now, are we gonna do this the easy way, or the hard way?” 

Without waiting for an answer, she slid a hand between his legs and squeezed his cock until he gasped out a strangled moan. She let go and slapped him right on his gaping, aching hole. A shockwave of pain shot through his body.

“Beverly!” he squealed, eyes watering, pitching forward. She grabbed his hips and pulled him upright. 

“Hard way it is, then.” She lined up her dildo with his rim and slowly inserted it, each slick inch sending sparks of aching, burning pleasure up his spine. When she was fully seated, she turned the vibrator on. 

"Mmmfffuck" Richie choked, struggling to remain upright. 

Bev pinned Richie’s hips in place with her nails, then thrusted, harder and faster than Bill. Unceasing. Richie’s cock slapped against his stomach and his ears were full of low, guttural cries that could only be coming from him. She was the only thing holding him up.

Bev’s hips rocked erratically; she gasped and shook, reaching between them to pinch and roll the skin of Richie’s taint between her fingers. 

A scream ripped from his throat. 

Beverly slid out and he collapsed face first. She ran her fingernails along his back in soothing, scraping circles. 

“You okay, honey?” 

“Ya broke me, Marsh,” Richie said, voice muffled by a cushion. “My bank account is yours. You get five whole dollars and some pocket lint. Happy?” 

“It’s okay.” Bev pressed a kiss behind Richie’s ear. “Soon you’ll be a famous comedian and I’ll fleece ya for real.” 

Richie could hear the smile in her voice. She squeezed his ass and was gone, replaced by Stan’s steady warmth. He ran his fingers down Richie’s crack, dipping into his opening, which was so stretched and numb Richie only felt the fingers by their soothing coolness. 

“How do you feel?” Stan asked. 

“Like when I come I’ll turn inside out like a cartoon and stick that way.” His muscles felt knife’s edge tight, his orgasm poised on a hair trigger. 

“Can you take more for us?” 

“I think so.” 

“Remember your safe word. Use it if you need it.” 

“Yeah.”

Stan smacked him, hard, across the ass. 

Richie yelped. “Yessir, Staniel.” 

“That’s what I thought,” Stan growled. “Now get up.” 

Despite his hard tone, Stan helped Richie off the bench and wrapped his arms around Richie’s waist, letting him lean into his chest for support. 

“You’re going to have to work a little harder for this one,” Stan said. “Give us a show. Ride Eddie ‘til he comes.” 

Eddie grabbed a pillow and lay down on the bench, taking his cock out of his pants. He made a pretty picture, flushed beneath his freckles, cock beginning to purple. Richie went to straddle him. 

"Backwards, Rich." 

Richie swallowed and turned around, so he was facing everyone, then straddled the bench and lowered himself awkwardly onto Eddie’s cock. Eddie made a strangled noise. Once he adjusted to the girth, which was slightly thicker than Bev’s dildo, Richie began to ride him, legs burning, cock flopping with every painful squat. He couldn’t see his losers except for in a colorful blur.

Stan adjusted the camera. Richie could only hope the sex tape would launch his career. Comedian by day, come dumpster by night. Star power, baby. 

In no time at all, Eddie grabbed Richie’s hips and came with a squelching “shit.” 

Richie reached between his legs, slipped his hand into the denim, and massaged Eddie’s balls through it, until he was softening inside Richie and Stan came over to help him stand up. Come ran down Richie’s shaking legs and he was so close to orgasm colors seemed brighter and it was hard to keep his eyes open. 

Stan sat on the bench, pulled Richie into his lap and kissed him deep, licking into his mouth like he wanted to claim every inch. Richie felt owned. He melted into Stan’s embrace. 

Stan bit Richie’s lips and trailed wet, open mouthed kisses down his neck. Richie whimpered and clung to Stan as he nipped at Richie’s furred clavicle and tugged on the nipple clamps. 

“You ready to come, sweetheart?” Stan asked, voice soft and low. 

Richie nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“Good boy. Stand up.” 

Richie pushed himself up on shaking legs. Stan stood behind Richie’s and lifted one of his legs onto the bench, then pulled down on his hips until he was fully seated on Stan’s cock. The position was awkward and exposed him to the room in a new way. 

“Bill, do you want the honors?” 

“Of course,” Bill smiled and came to kneel between Richie’s legs. 

“Hey, Bill!” Eddie tossed a pillow at him. “Your knees will thank me later.” 

Bill sighed, but tucked the pillow under his knees, then took Richie’s cock in his warmwet mouth. 

For Richie, the world narrowed down to that mouth, to that man with the electric blue eyes, to Billiam, to his _Bill_. Sucking, licking, swallowing him down. 

And then Stan began to move in slow, shallow thrusts and Richie saw stars. He saw stars and god, it felt so good it hurt and he didn’t know which way to move and his legs were shaking so hard and then the pressure built and built, a fire stoking in his belly until it exploded and Stan took the clamps off and Richie came so hard he screamed and his legs stopped functioning and Bill and Stan had to lay him down on the bench so Stan could finish inside him. 

Stan gently pulled out and sat down, gathering all Richie’s melty, naked limbs into his lap. “Bev, blanket. Eddie, bath. Ben, camera.” 

And then Bev was covering Richie in the softest blanket and he was surrounded by people. His people. 

“You did so, so well,” Stan said, pressing a kiss to Richie’s forehead. “Such a good job.” 

“Mmm?” 

Stan stroked his hair back. “I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry.” 

Richie buried his face in Stan’s armpit and drifted. 

“Bath’s ready,” Eddie said some time later. Bev took back the blanket and Richie shivered, feeling more naked than before. 

Bill helped Richie off Stan’s lap, and together he and Stan mostly carried Richie to the bathroom and sat him on the cold toilet. 

“Try to pee,” Stan said. “We need to clear out your urinary tract, and you won’t want to get up later.” 

“Clean out your own uris-nary tract,” Richie mumbled, stooped over his knees like a question mark. As he peed, he became aware that his shaking legs were jelly-slick and sticky with come. He was a wreck. 

When he finished, Bill helped him up to wash his hands, then to get into the tub. Stan was already there, up to his neck. The tub was deep enough that when Richie was situated between Stan’s legs, most of his body was underwater. 

A small cry ripped itself out of Richie’s throat when his ass hit porcelain. Bill scooped his hand out of the water and kissed his knuckles. 

“It’s okay,” Bill said. “We’re gonna f-fix it.” 

Stan kissed Richie’s temple. “You’re doing so well.” 

Richie let himself relax against Stan’s chest. Stan grabbed a cloth and began gently bathing Richie, scrubbing his body hair into soapy swirls. The drag of the washcloth was soft and luxuriant and soon he was drifting again. 

Stan washed Richie’s back, then up his arm. When he finished, Bill took the still-soapy limb and massaged Richie’s hand, thumbs digging in, working all the way up his arm. It hurt, but left the muscles tingly and relaxed. 

When all Richie’s limbs were washed and massaged, Stan moved to his crotch. He ran the cloth gently over Richie’s cock and taint. It felt good in a distant way, like the sparks swimming through the air after the firework’s big explosion. Then, he moved to Richie’s ass. 

Raw in more ways than one, Richie was unable to bite back a cry when the washcloth touched his rim. 

Bill grabbed his hands. “Look at me Rich,” he said forcefully. “Look at me.” 

Richie did, though Bill’s face was blurry and out of focus without his glasses. Stan gentled his touch, but it wasn’t enough to dull the burn. 

“You’re doing so well,” Stan said. “Hang on, only another minute.”

“I’ve got you,” Bill said. “I would never let anything bad happen to you, remember? Not ever.” 

“I know.” Richie wished he had his glasses, so he could see the way Bill’s eyes flashed blue when he said things like that. 

When Stan finished, he held Richie in a tight hug. “You did such a good job,” he said, pressing a kiss to Richie’s hair. “You’re perfect.” 

Richie snuggled into Stan’s arms. He could’ve stayed there, warm and drifting, all night, but Stan pulled the plug and set it carefully on the edge of the tub. “Let’s get you rinsed and in bed.” 

Bill grabbed Richie’s hands and hoisted him up into a standing position. Richie winced at the slight burn and the jelly in his muscles, but obediently stepped over the edge and let himself be led to the shower. 

Richie leaned into Bill’s side while Bill started the water and stuck his wrist underneath. After a few minutes, he nodded and Stan took Richie into the glass box. 

Comfort-warm water rushed down Richie’s body in thick, soapy rivulets. Stan rubbed shampoo through Richie’s hair, taking care to scrape his blunt nails against Richie’s scalp. 

Richie sighed.

“You blissed out, baby?” Stan asked with a chuckle, taking down the shower head to rinse Richie’s hair. 

“Oh, man. You betcha.” 

“Good.” Stan rubbed some of his own fancy conditioner in Richie’s hair. A nice, woodsy cedar with the edge of something darker. 

“Mm. I like that,” Richie murmured. 

“Do you?” 

He nodded. “Smells like you.” 

Stan rolled his eyes, but stretched up to kiss Richie, soft and lingering. When he pulled away, he set to rinsing Richie within an inch of his life. When he got to Richie’s crotch, he dropped the temperature to lukewarm and carefully rinsed the soap from all his crevices. It only stung a little bit and then he was done. 

Stan turned the heat up, hotter than Richie could stand it, and nudged him out of the shower. Bill met Richie at the sliding door with a big towel and a hug. He submitted to the affection, burying his face in Bill’s hair, breathing in the inky musk that had always been his Billiam. 

“Are you still mad at me?” Richie blurted, the question scratching at the edges of his bliss like an incontinent housecat. 

Bill sighed with his whole body. “I was never m…m-mad at you. Not really.” 

“So those death glares were love notes?” 

“Richie.” Bill stepped back enough to look up into his face. Richie ducked to bring him into better focus. “I don’t like that you think so little of yourself, but I’m not m-mad at you for it.” 

“Billy—" 

“I love you,” Bill said, pulling Richie back into his embrace. “I always will.” 

“I love you, too.” 

After a while, the shower stopped. Bill pressed a kiss to Richie’s cheek, then released him, hurrying to grab another towel from the linen closet. He wrapped Stan up in it and kissed him. 

Richie leaned against the sink, heart impossibly full. 

Stan smiled. “You look like a drowned rat. Why don’t you take a shower next?” 

Bill rolled his eyes, already pulling his shirt over his head. “Is this part of your evil plot to make us all shower before bed?” 

“No. It’s part of my evil plot to see you naked before bed.” Stan dipped a finger in the waistband of Bill’s jeans. “A cleaner you is just a bonus.” 

Bill flushed so deeply that even Richie could see it. 

“Damn, Stanny,” Richie crowed. “You’re gonna give me another woody if you’re not careful.” 

“Shut your lid, Trashman,” Stan said. “It’s time for you to go to bed.” 

Still, they finished watching Bill undress. When Bill was bare, Stan kissed him, cupping the soft mound between his legs. When he had Bill gasping into his mouth, Stan said, “later.” 

“Can I watch?” Richie grinned. 

Stan rolled his eyes and wrapped an arm around Richie’s waist, herding him out of the bathroom and to the bed.

“Lay face down so Eddie can take a look,” Stan ordered. 

Bev, perched on the edge of the bed, patted her lap. Richie clambered up and lay his head on her legs, letting the rest of his body hang off the edge. Easy access for Dr. K. 

He wrapped an arm around Bev’s waist and snuggled into her lap, face buried in her belly. She was wearing her silk pajamas, which felt like heaven in tandem with her soft body. 

“Hey, cowboy.” She chuckled and wove her fingers into Richie’s hair, gently separating the strands. 

“Hey, Rich.” Eddie pressed a hand to Richie’s lower back. “Is it okay if I check you out?” 

“Do you have your library card?” 

“You’re not funny,” Eddie admonished, though Richie could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Oh, Spaghetti-baby, you know I’m kidding anyway. You can check out this old book anytime.” He lifted his head to shoot Eddie an exaggerated wink. 

Eddie laughed without sound. “Asshole.” 

Richie tucked himself back into Beverly. 

“I’m glad to see a career in comedy hasn’t improved your sense of humor,” Bev said, winding a strand of his hair around her index finger. 

Richie sighed dramatically. “You wound me, Marsh.” 

Eddie gently separated Richie’s cheeks. “You’re pretty red and swollen back here. Does it hurt?” 

“Yeah, kinda.” 

Bev kissed the back of Richie’s head. 

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispered. “I tried to warm it up, but this will be a little cold.” 

Eddie squirted thick paste on Richie’s hole and gently rubbed it in. It was cool and stung a little, but the pain quickly dulled. The cap clicked back on the tube and then Eddie was separating Richie’s legs. 

“Jesus Christ. You’ve got one hell of a rugburn down here. Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“It’s fine, Eds. It barely hurts.” 

“It is _not_ fine,” Eddie insisted, indignant. “Hang on.” 

Bev patted his head. “Just let him take care of you. You deserve it.” 

Richie grunted, but rucked up her pajama top to expose a strip of freckled skin and kissed her there for saying so. 

“Here, dickwad.” Eddie smoothed something cold on his inner thighs. “That should make you feel better and stop you from catching a nasty infection.” 

“Thanks, Dr. K.” 

Another cap clicked and then he was rubbing Richie’s back. “C’mon, get up. I brought you some clothes.” 

Richie pushed himself up, immediately missing Bev’s lap, and Eddie helped him into a pair of white briefs. 

“Six men in this house and we’re outta boxers?” 

“These are better for you right now, dumbass, and besides I want to catch any bleeding and we don’t have any white boxers.” 

Richie snickered. “If you want my dirty undies, you can just say so, man. I got a whole pile of ‘em in my hamper.”

“That is disgusting. You should do your laundry more often, you’re like an E Coli factory,” Eddie ranted, helping Richie into a pair of Mike’s sweatpants, warm and baggy. “Plus, did you know that if you wait too long, your laundry will just…fucking mold, and then we could all inhale the spores and die?” 

Eddie pulled a thin sweater over Richie’s head. “Will you even have proper laundry facilities when you’re on tour? Please, promise me you won’t re-wear clothes. I’d rather you…sent them home in a box or threw them away then did that.” 

Richie cupped Eddie’s cheeks gently. “I promise, Eds. I’ll be good, okay?” 

Eddie’s eyes liquified. He wrapped Richie in a hug, his constellation of freckles coming into sharp focus for an instant. 

“I love you, numbnuts,” Eddie muttered into his chest, like it was Richie’s fault or something. 

“I love you, too, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie grinned. 

Eddie let him go and produced a large glass of water from…somewhere and told Richie to drink it. Suddenly realizing he was parched, Richie chugged the whole thing. His stomach gurgled. 

“Have you eaten anything lately?” Eddie demanded. 

“Uh, I had a Swiss Cake Roll a few hours ago.” 

“And before that?” He crossed his arms and glared. 

“A couple bites of apple. And breakfast! It was at like, ten am so it kinda counts as lunch, too.” 

“Uh huh.” Eddie’s foot tapped against the hardwood. “And what did you have for breakfast?” 

“What is this, an interrogation?” Richie sat on the bed and winced.

His face softened, but his foot tapped faster. “You had Frosted Flakes, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah.” 

He shook his head. “I’ll bring you something healthy. Get off your ass and cuddle with Bev until I get back.” And then Eddie ‘Speedy Spaghetti’ Kaspbrak was gone. 

“Oh god,” Richie groaned. Eds was really on a kick there. What if he brought back, like, a whole squash and made Richie eat it raw? Time for the big guns. “Mike!” 

Mike stepped into semi-focus, clad in nothing but pink boxer-briefs. “Yes?” 

Richie swallowed. “Can you please go make sure Eds doesn’t come up here with anything too healthy?” 

“Okay, but you’re at least having one vegetable,” Mike said.

“Fine, but if it’s cauliflower I will cry,” Richie warned. “I don’t care how many antioxidants or whatever they have.” 

Mike rolled his eyes. “Noted.” 

“Richie, get over here,” Bev said. She had moved to lie against the pillows. Richie crawled into her open arms and buried his face in her chest. She was so small and so soft, like a teddy bear, if stuffed animals were crack shots with wicked senses of humor. 

“You smell so good.” He snuggled in as tight as he could and she laughed. 

“How you doing, big guy?” 

“Petder vith vu here Pefferly, darlink.” 

“Lederhosen Larry!” She giggled. 

“At your zerffice, mein lady.”

Bev stroked his hair. “As much as I love you, Larry, I’m gonna have to ask for Richie back.” 

“Put zat Hasschole made vu cry.”

“Yeah. I’d like to talk to him about that.” 

“He’s scared.” The Voice cracked. 

“He doesn’t need to be,” she soothed. “C’mon, honey.” 

“I’m really sorry, Bev,” Richie said. 

“I’m sorry, too.” She sighed. “I shouldn’t have gotten so defensive. I was just scared.”

“Of what?” He rubbed tight circles into her lower back. She arched into the touch. 

“I get a lot of flack for being with six guys, you know? But I wouldn’t change my life for anything. You guys…you make everything better.” She took a deep breath. “My father…I didn’t have a stable home life as a kid. I guess I was afraid you were saying you didn’t love me anymore.” 

“I am so sorry, Bevs.” Richie leaned back a little to look in her eyes. She wasn’t crying, but they had a glassy quality, like years ago, when she would come home from therapy and sit in a dry bathtub, flinching at any hand that came too close. “There isn’t anything you could ever do to make me stop loving you. I’m in this for life, sweetheart, I promise.” 

Her eyes cleared and she smiled, a wavering, sparkling thing. “There isn’t anything _you_ could do to make me stop loving you either. I’m sorry I ever made you doubt it.” 

“It’s okay.” He tipped his head up and kissed her. “If this tour goes well, I’ll be able to afford better health insurance. And then maybe I’ll go to therapy. Get this old noggin’ on a little straighter.” 

Her smile brightened. “I’m glad. You deserve to feel good about yourself.” 

“So do you.”

Bev leaned down to kiss him again, a slow, slick sliding of mouths and tongues. He slid his hands down her back and under the waistband of her pajama bottoms to cup her soft, round ass. She responded in kind with a gentle rub. 

“Why Miss Scawlett, I do duhclare you are gettin’ fresh with me,” he said around the kiss. 

She bit his bottom lip, then pulled back with a grin and a wink. “Gotta give you somethin’ to talk about at the church social.” 

“Richard, would you like to take this sandwich I’ve been holding for approximately ten years now or would you prefer to use Beverly as a plate?” Eddie’s foot was tapping again. 

Richie kissed Bev one more time before gingerly sitting up. “You think I can afford to dry clean her PJs if I get food on them?” 

Rolling his eyes, Eddie handed him the plate. He’d made Richie a roast beef sandwich on his own fussy nut bread with Dijon mustard and broccoli coleslaw. Messy and surprisingly delicious. And he got to eat in bed!

“This is great, man, thanks!” Richie said around a huge bite. 

Eddie grinned and patted his head. “Don’t choke, big guy.” 

Richie, realizing how hungry he was, scarfed down the sandwich in record time and chugged the glass of milk Mike brought up to him. 

After he finished, Eddie took the dishes back and ordered Richie to brush his goddamned teeth for fuck’s sake, so Richie John Wayned it into the bathroom lickety-split. 

When he got back to bed, everyone was under the covers, tangled together. Mike scooted backward into Eddie and held the sheet up. Richie crawled between him and Stan and snuggled in. 

Richie started to drift again. With Mike holding him from behind and Stan’s shoulder as a pillow, Richie was so safe. He soaked it in like a flower in the sun who can smell rain in the air. And, like a flower, he knew the sun would always be there, waiting behind the clouds. 

“How are you feeling, really?” Stan asked. 

“Like you’re all still in my ass.” He chuckled. “Better. A little sore.” 

Stan took a breath and Richie could almost hear the cogs turning in his clockwork brain. “Do you believe we love you?” 

“Yeah, of course.” Richie sighed. “But I can’t promise it’ll stick. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Mike said, voice already sleep rough and rumbly. “We’ve all got our problems. We just want you to talk to us so we can help.” 

“I know. I’ll try.” Richie lifted Mike’s hand and kissed his palm. Mike responded with a kiss to Richie’s shoulder. 

“We’ll try, too,” Ben said. “We’re all in this together.” 

Richie bit back a joke. His Ben was too fucking pure for this world. “I love you guys,” he said finally. “I really do.” 

“Love you, too,” they echoed. 

As Richie drifted into sleep, his heart swelled. He really was the luckiest chucklefuck in the whole goddamned world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically this was a request for "poly losers, bottom Richie." As you can see, I may have gotten a little carried away XD
> 
> If you'd like to place a request, hit me up @[readinglikechickensoup](https://readinglikechickensoup.tumblr.com/)


End file.
